


No drinks for me, thank you.

by bellygunnr



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Fungal disease, M/M, Multi, Plague
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellygunnr/pseuds/bellygunnr
Summary: The Heir is gone. The Weald is expanding with the warm breeze of spring. Dismas was never meant to lead.





	1. Pilot

The Hamlet had become harrowed under the assault of abused soldiers and wearied doctors. The lights from the Sanitarium and the Abbey were dim and flickering, obscured by heavy curtains drawn for the protection of their patients. Shadows clung to the worn cobbled paths, making the houses dribble and ooze in their blackness as Dismas meandered slowly toward the tavern. The hard leather edge of his dagger’s sheathe dug into his stomach as he walked, boots striking a steady beat. There was little to see around him. There was little to see anywhere.

The tavern was nigh empty, save for the barkeep and the heavy-cloaked figures of self-proclaimed plague doctors and otherworldly scholars. Dismas pulled at the stubble growing along his chin with some discomfort, though he swallowed his grimace lest they noticed. But of course they would gather here when the rest of the Hamlet was driven back by plague-- no one had been able to grant them permission into more respectable labs.

“Good evening,” Dismas said slowly. He dragged a chair up to the bar, slumping over the wooden board. “Any progress?”

“Oh, Dismas,” said one doctor-- their beak-like mask nearly stabbed the Highwayman in the eye. “I’m afraid we will not be able to sustain any trips into the estate wilderness for quite a while. The sickness, you see, has taken our strongest fighters.”

He sighed. The barkeep cut a look at him with her heavy, bagged eyes and scarred shoulders. The offer was silent. Dismas shook his head.

“Any deaths?” Dismas pushed reluctantly.

“No, none yet...” the doctor murmured. “May there not be any.”

“This plague does seem to have... originated from the Weald, Dismas,” another voice cut in. One of the scholarly types touched his shoulder to bring his head around. “Fungal spores have infiltrated their rooms, and crawl across their skin. You have not permitted me to venture there but that is where those beasts reside, is it not?”

His stomach cramped at the mere mention of the Weald. He remembered vividly the piercing thorns and mushroom-flesh daggers, the choking plumes of spores that made his mouth feel like cotton. Dismas growled low in his throat.

“Yes, that’s them. Who were the first infected again...?”

“Brinon, ah... one of those abomination fellows, this one had the padlocks on his neck--”

“Garett,” Dismas cut in gravely. “They’re not abominations.”

“Right, Garett, yes... Brinon, Garrett, and that woman, Marion. They’ve been locked up tightly for many days now. The sanitarium will not permit us passage,” the scholar finished.

“I’m working on it,” he sighed. “Marion was the last to go in, but she led the last expedition into that horrible place.”

A heavy blanket of silence fell over the group, and Dismas lay his head down. Some part of him yearned for a shot of whiskey to dull the edge- but he didn't have the time. He had a town to run, an estate to fix, and all its inhabitants were on the verge of being wiped out. For their sake, if not for his, he would have to remain sober.

"I trust in you all to find a solution," Dismas said suddenly. He pushed himself up and away from the bar. "I'm going to go find Reynauld. Or that thrice-damned heir."

 

Reynauld was not in the square, nor the barracks, nor the graveyard. He found him in the church among the pews and stained glass windows, casting warm light in broken shafts across the sanctuary. The holy man's formidable frame seemed to sparkle under the moonlight's silver caress, as if he were indeed an angel, or some other higher being. Dismas shook his head and hovered in front of the doors. The man did not _seem_ to be praying but even he knew better than to disturb someone in their place of worship.

Only when Dismas was growing impatient with the silent breathing and the silent waiting did Reynauld turn around, his face for once uncovered by armor or cloth, revealing a face branded with scars against pale skin. Bright, focused eyes glinted expressionlessly at Dismas, becoming as cold as flint as his lips tightened, then softened.

"This is not the first place you looked," Reynauld called with amusement.

"No," Dismas agreed.

"What are we going to do without a priest, Dismas?" the holy man pressed.

"Let the women deal with it. Or the Heir's caretaker," he said huffily. "That isn't my business, you know that."

Reynauld shook his head. He began to walk slowly down the church's center lane, steps silent-- he was walking barefoot. Dismas frowned with disapproval.

"Where are your boots, knight-man? Don't tell me you lost them," he growled.

"Not at all," Reynauld said without a degree of offense. "Can I not forego certain material matters to speak more closely with the Lord?"

A distinct sense of unease settled within the pit of Dismas' stomach. There was something off about the man's speech, the tilt of his walk, and even the scars patterning his face. Maybe it was just that the holy man was unarmoured and completely devoid of tapestries. Maybe it was that he was inside the church and his holy book was decidedly not anywhere nearby. Or maybe Dismas had never talked to him while sober...

_Too many variables,_ Dismas thought.

"You look troubled," he said gently. Reynauld had stepped in much closer, out of the moon's silver fingers and into the shadows. Concern deepened the wrinkles on his forehead but the effect was overall relieving-- here, the thief could get a bead on his old comrade.

"I want a drink," Dismas admitted. "Come on. Let's go for a walk, man."

  
Their walk led them back to the barracks. Dismas stopped short of the door, staring at the austere structure with some distaste in his tired eyes. Clouds had covered the moon completely and cast everything back into horrid shadow, so his hostility went largely unnoticed by Reynauld.

"Why do you still sleep here...?" Dismas asked of him.

"It is comfortable. It is also close to our brothers and sisters in arms," Reynauld answered mildly.

"You mean close to those that see the grave faster."

"Not a bit, dear Dismas. At least Barristan is still around from those cursed days, so we are not entirely alone."

Dismas shook his head as finally, Reynauld turned away and disappeared into the barracks, leaving him alone. Of the two, Dismas had been the first to find his own personal residence-- much to the citizens and the Heir's dismay. Not that he cared. He had the coin and the know-how, and at this point, it would be awkward not to have his own space. It just irked him that no one else had done the same.

He passed the tavern, now dark and silent, and caught a glimpse of the horizon. Crimson flared and bobbed along its distant line-- the night moved fast, it seemed, as dawn was fast approaching. He scratched at his stubble with dismay.

Despite his long, long day, exhaustion still did not pull at his muscles or brain.

Sleep would be scarce. This month would be hard.


	2. Hamlets and Hiers

_from the Crusader_  
The sanitarium loomed high above the rest of the Hamlet, overshadowed only by the manor perched upon the hills, its windows casting colored shadows across the wearied streets. Reynauld peered through his steel visor at its heavy hardwood doors, a hand lifted to press them open, when someone grabbed his wrist. He startled, exhaling heavily, and took a moment to find the owner of the hand.

Junia.

"Quarantine," she said simply.

"That bad?"

"Yes. Were you seeking to pray for them?"

Reynauld inhaled, exhaled. He didn't remember what led his feet to the doors of the stern stone structure-- just that there was a pulling in his chest.

"Yes. Light knows that they need it," Reynauld lied. The excuse was easy, but his tongue burned.

"Then come with me. The Abbey has been opened wide so that we may sing and pray, and all may hear our calls."

Just like that, Junia led the armoured knight to the abbey, where his services would be more potent in the gathering of the Light.

  
_in the sanitarium_  
Their flesh had grew warped and distended, bloated with the strain of an invasive force, and movement fled them entirely. The afflicted stared out with glassy, vacant eyes, and mumbled strange things, spitting and heaving up globs of mucus that dried rapidly and became floating dust in the air. Their caretakers, may the Lord bless them, dressed like steel Plague Doctors to protect themselves from the new disease, all while desperately trying to cure them.

None of the Sanitarium's usual concoctions worked. Their serums and potions were merely absorbed into their bodies and coughed out as spores that took to the stale air and clung to wherever they landed. These clumps were later gathered up and burned, for if nothing else, fire destroyed the plant matter readily.

Worse, the staff would not collaborate with the Hamlet's soldiers to find a cure. Plague Doctors and occultists were turned away and promised nothing. Frustration was building within the accursed Hamlet. The Heiress did nothing.

A leper had fallen to the disease and the situation was dire. It was a wonder how the already diseased man was still alive, his bruised and scarred skin ridden with boils, face thick and swollen and falling apart. He was disintegrating. The straps digging into his wrists caused his skin to slough. Any movement- even the most minuscule- threatened to strip apart his muscles. From his scabs and wounds, fleshy stalks were peeking, the burgeoning heads of mushrooms. Brinon, the Leper from the seas, was losing.

Yet beside him lay a man who was entirely emaciated, all gaunt skin and peeking bones and deep scars, the patchwork glowing a sickly green. He had not become as terribly afflicted as his neighbor thanks in no small part to the eldritch blood coursing through his veins. A modicum of consciousness still remained and his eyes were not blank nor glassy, instead they glared out into the room with fury. Immobilized and strapped down, Garrett from the North prisons was rendered useless.

Across the room lay a woman nicknamed a Hellion and she, too, had somewhat resisted the disease. Her eyes glared out through a face malformed with sickly yellow bulges, bright and indignant, entirely self-aware. She, too, was strapped to the beds with leather and chains, for fear that she would try to leave. Sticky spores glued her lips together and floated from her nose, occasionally drifting from the air. Marion, from the wilderness, was losing.

These heroes heard not the praying nor the singing from the abbey. They felt not the power of the Lord and his Light and definitely not the carefully curated hope of their peers. They instead felt intimately the confines of their minds and the insidious birth of a sixth sense. Each beat of one's own heart was doubled, louder, and the intake of their lungs felt like the breaths of many. Somewhere within the disease's progression they had become bonded, acutely aware of not only themselves but each other, and even the Weald so many winding miles away.

Light flooded briefly into their sick-addled ward. Another steel Plague Doctor had arrived to administrate them.

  
_from the highwayman_  
The Heir had remained in her Ancestor's venerable house for as long as Dismas could recall. She rarely ventured outside, communicating purely by letter, or when she summoned soldiers forward to spit them back out again. Now Dismas took the overgrown path from the Hamlet directly to that dilapidated home, his breath loud and roaring in his own ears. He bared his teeth in frustration-- why was it he that approached the heir? What was possessing him? The weight of it all felt like stones settling in his lungs.

Dread built steadily in the recesses of his belly. He tried to focus on the lingering singing of the holy people, led haphazardly by the entire lot of them, unguided now that the priest was dead. His tongue curled in his mouth at the memory-- they had all tried their best. Not even a bullet could have saved him. The music escaped him now, fading to nothingness as he came upon the door with its brass raven-pendant knocker.

_It's now... or never_ , Dismas thought.

He grasped the knocker with his gloved hands and let it drop several times. In fact, he kept dropping the pendant until he detected movement from within, at which he halted and waited somewhat patiently for the door to open.

"What-- could you possibly want? I have summoned no one here. It better be important," came the voice. Haggard, irritated, and exactly feminine.

"It's Dismas, from the Hamlet," he announced.

The door slid open slowly.

"What do you want?"

The Heiress was clad in a heavy, heavy cloak and a thick hood that concealed her face from view. Dismas kept his unease at bay and tugged his mask away from his face.

"Hamlet's plagued," Dismas said roughly. "And no one can fix'em."

"The hamlet's dealt with sickness before. What do you want me to do about it?" The heiress snapped.

Dismas hissed in discomfort. "What the hell do ya mean? I want ya to do something to fix it!" His temper was short and his tongue slipped.

"They'll live or they can die trying. I don't care. Just keep any coach recruits away from the ill and we'll be fine! I have more important things to do right now. Let the Hamlet know they are on their own."

"There's gonna be riots, damn you! What's gotten into you, girl?"

The Heiress lashed out with pale, bloodied hands. She grabbed up the thief's shirt and pulled him so close that he felt her breath raking against his throat.

"I am _this_ close, Dismas, to driving out my father's sins. I just need a few more weeks. I've found the shortcut-- no one will have to enter those corrupted acreages again!"

Light flickered and bounced from the sun, and Dismas saw madness swirling in the lady's eyes. He grit his teeth together with a pained clack. What did she mean? What was she doing up here? If he didn't know any better, he'd say she's gone the way of her father. It must run in the blood, if nothing else.

The Heiress shoved him back out onto the neglected cobblestones. The door slammed with a resounding crack that felt like a branding across his own heart.

There's a plague in the Hamlet. And the Heiress had gone mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile since I've wanted to write a story.


	3. Holy Men & Cotton Tongue

_from the plague doctor_  
The camaraderie that had blossomed between them all was alien in the Hamlet, to say the least. She and others of scholarly or otherwise medical backgrounds spent long hours in the Tavern, drinking mightily both water and alcohol, occasionally condemning the practices of one another. It was by no means cohesive but a complete fracturing had not occurred, and that was a victory in and of itself.

Now, after a night with little sleep, Paracelsus was approaching the Sanitarium's doors with a strict stride and a mask pulled down so that it hung from her neck. The concoction of herbs and spices stuffed into the cloth beak had a different tang exposed to open air, but she resolutely ignored it. She rapped her fists against the door.

A nurse opened the door only moments later.

"I want to visit the patients," Paracelsus said instantly.

The nurse peered at her through bruised, guarded eyes. "No."

"Then at least let me talk to the Head Nurse. Anywhere she wants."

"...That can be arranged," the nurse sighed reluctantly. "Come inside."

  
_from the highwayman_  
By the time Dismas returned to the Hamlet, the mail had already been received and distributed, and the air was thick with tension. He slipped his hands beneath his heavy leather coat and approached the group hovering inside the square.

"What's the news?" Dismas called.

"A letter from the Heiress. Mail from King George," one person called. They spoke through a shroud hanging from a metal mask, concealing their expression and all other tells.

"The Heiress, huh?"

The shrouded man jostled a heavy sack that jangled with the metal ring of coin. "Enough gold for a two week expedition into the Weald. But we all know what that means."

"...Yeah, fuck that," Dismas snarled. "Fuck her, too."

The man laughed. "Didn't you go and see the Heiress this morning? How did that go?"

Dismas exhaled heatedly through the red cloth tied around his face. "This is better suited to the tavern, man. Tell me more about the expedition she wants us to go on."

The man-- an experienced bounty hunter, yet new to the Hamlet-- laughed again. "Oh, it's a good one..."

The tavern looked different in the mid-morning light. Its shabbiness was amplified, the roof and its walls in critical disrepair. Paint flaked off the sign and the hinges creaked ominously despite there being no wind. Through the worn windows people could already be seen tippling or talking. Dismas wondered if a drink this early was acceptable.

He snorted. Of course it was, in the Hamlet.

"What's your name?" Dismas asked the bounty-hunter before he could step inside.

"Ah, don't worry about it," he said flippantly. He disappeared inside the bar.

Dismas' hand went to his knife.

  
_from the plague doctor_  
The Head Nurse of the sanitarium was a sharp-nosed lady clad in what could be amounted to leather armor. To Paracelsus, her outfit looked heavily inspired from that of the Hamlet's armoured Vestals-- and perhaps it was. A lot of dead bodies did pass through the hospital.... Who could blame her for using her resources? She shook her head. Now wasn't the time to think about that.

"Why won't you let us help you with the patients?" the Plague Doctor demanded. "Those are our friends! Our soldiers, not yours!"

"Friends? That is a rich word from your mouth, Paracelsus."

"If you gave me even a sample, I could help find a cure," she protested, ignoring the insult. "You should know that dozens of us have gathered already."

Consternation made the woman's face rough. Her shoulders heaved, her lip quivered, and with a shuttering sigh: "Sit down, dear. There is much you don't understand."

Paracelsus sat down, a knot of fear welling in her heart.

"This is not...the first time the Hamlet has seen this plague."

_from the Crusader_  
The holy songs and the Verses felt heavy on his tongue. It felt as though wads of cotton were being stuffed into his cheeks and eventually his throat, preventing his breath, let alone any speech. When it finally grew too much, Reynauld separated himself away from Junia and broke for the outdoors. The fresh air was an instant relief-- he inhaled deeply, let his head clear, and exploded.

Fear of the basest kind burst in his heart. The Verses had harmed him-- the Verses he knew by heart, had learned since he was a babe, the same ones that guided his sword in battle. Had he committed some unspeakable sin? What had he done? He had repented for all his errors, and paid all his dues, so why now did the Verse choke him of his breath?

Reynauld's blood pounded in his ears, fueled by a rapidly spinning heartbeat. He jerked his head back to the Abbey, where his vision swayed and danced dangerously. The cloister-- he would cloister, and then he would be free of this terror.

He hoped that his terror was not visible to the holy eyes inside.

_from the highwayman_  
The letter's seal was broken in half, sliced clean by the blade of the Bounty Hunter. The letter itself was splotched with ink, as if written in not only haste but blindly, but Dismas knew not what was written on the page. He scratched at his scruff through the red scarf wrapped around his face.

"Can't read it," he huffed reluctantly.

The Hunter's face-- his mask and shroud removed after a sound threat from Dismas-- passed through many different expressions, finally settling on quiet acceptance. "She wants the next load from the Stage Coach to go into the Weald."

Dismas swallowed. It had been a long time since something like that had occurred. Usually, new blood was paired with more seasoned soldiers so that they may learn the rules of the land. Occasionally, however, she would thrust a group of recruits into dangerous venues with little supplies and old weaponry, often with cryptic quests that left the Hamlet choking for breath. This one seemed to be no different.

"What's their mission?" Dismas asked roughly.

"Can't say. That's for their eyes," the man chuckled. He slid the letter back. "When's the Stage Coach due again?"

"...This afternoon," he sighed. "At least they'll be well supplied?"

"We'll see," the hunter said cryptically.


End file.
